“He’s on the chat and wants to know if we are still doing the mission tonight.”
Petraeus had left his headquarters in Kabul and walked down the street to the small building that housed my special operations liaison officer. He had questioned the officer about the status of the mission, but the officer, who was not read-in to the operation, didn’t have a clue what Petraeus was talking about.
I laughed. “Art, tell General Petraeus that we are ten minutes out from time on target.”
Sellers sent back my response, to which Petraeus replied, “Good luck!”
“Sir, General Webb is on chat now.”
Brad Webb, my assistant commander, was in the White House in a small anteroom just off from the larger Situation Room. He had full communications with me and also was monitoring the same video feed I was receiving from my overhead assets.
I was looking out my closet watching the big screen as the helos broke out from behind the mountains and began their last two-minute flight to the Abbottabad compound.
“Yeah,” I said, somewhat distracted.
“Sir, he says the Vice President just walked into the anteroom.”
“Okay,” I acknowledged, still eyeing the big screen as the helos approached the target.
“Sir, General Webb says the President just walked into the room.”
“Got it, Art.”
A moment later, “Sir, he says everyone is now in the room watching the operation.”
I had to chuckle. I could imagine Brad Webb sitting alone in the anteroom and then, without warning, the entire national security team converges around him. Webb was a superb officer and he had all the right experience to answer any questions the President or others might ask. I didn’t give it a second thought.
“Sir, we are two minutes from the target,” I notified Panetta.
“Okay, Bill,” came the reply from CIA headquarters.
The first helo approached the compound, moving into position between the three-story living quarters and the eighteen-foot-high concrete wall that bordered the southern fence line. As he maneuvered the Black Hawk into fast-rope position, I could tell the pilot was having difficulty holding position. The helo wobbled and pitched upward trying to maintain altitude.
“They’re going down!” someone yelled.
As it spun slowly out of control, I was already thinking of the next step. Less than thirty minutes behind the two Black Hawks were the MH-47 Chinooks. We lagged the Chinooks behind the initial assault force over concerns that owing to its large radar and noise signature, it might be detected and compromise our surprise. But right now, surprise was no longer an issue.
Struggling to maintain lift, the Black Hawk pilot nosed the aircraft down, forcing it over the small interior wall and into the open animal pen just on the other side of the driveway. Bricks and concrete flew in all directions as the tail boom of the spinning aircraft clipped the outer wall, driving the fuselage into the ground and slamming the SEALs and crew to the metal deck of the helo.
It all unfolded in slow motion, but having lost several helicopters during my time in command, I knew the difference between a crash and a hard landing. This was a hard landing.
Three weeks earlier, the Black Hawk pilot and I had talked about the worst-case scenario coming into the compound. We both agreed that the most dangerous point in the mission was when the Black Hawk came to a hover just outside bin Laden’s third-story living quarters. The potential for bin Laden or one of his men to fire an RPG into the hovering helo was high. Snipers and door gunners were positioned on the right side of the helo, prepared to engage any threat, but still the possibility of an RPG existed.
The pilot assured me that even if he took an RPG, as long as he survived the initial blast, he could get the helo into the open animal pen and land it safely. As it turned out, the high temperatures that evening and the eighteen-foot-high concrete wall created a vortex effect from the propeller downwash, causing the helo to lose lift. The pilot, true to his word, had gotten the men safely, albeit dramatically, on the ground.
“Sir, we have a bird down,” Van Hooser announced unemotionally.
“Roger, Pete, I’m watching. What’s the timeline to get the 47 in?”
“Sir, she’s thirty minutes out.”
“Okay, bring her to a holding position. She will have to be the extract bird.”
“Roger, sir.”
Thompson contacted the Chinook and maneuvered the helo to within five minutes of the compound. The aircraft would hide behind the ridgeline until it was necessary to call her in.
In the meantime, I contacted Panetta and let him know the status. “Sir, as you can see, we have a helo down,” I said. By then the SEALs were already out of the aircraft and beginning to execute an alternate plan.
“The SEALs are continuing on with the mission. I will keep you posted.”
Panetta nodded, but there was a real look of concern on his face.
Not immediately knowing what had caused the first helo’s problems, the pilot of the second helo landed outside the compound walls. From my closet I watched on the video screen as the SEALs moved toward the main compound.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Flowing in two directions, the first SEAL element approached the small guesthouse and a short burst of gunfire lit up the screen. Moments later came the dispassionate call.
“One EKIA.”
At the same time, multiple explosions flashed on the video as the SEALs blew down the hardened steel doors that were protecting the outer and inner cordons of bin Laden’s small fortress.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Inside the main building, away from my view, the SEALs engaged another of bin Laden’s men. As they made their way to the second floor another call came from the JOC NCO.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
I knew from the plan that the assault force was clearing the floors one by one. They encountered a threat on the first floor and on the stairwell leading to the second floor. Both enemy were dead.
Outside the three-story building, I could see the dark figures of the SEALs as they methodically cleared the rest of the compound. Everywhere, beams of infrared light from the weapons’ laser pointers swept across the ground, into the windows, across the buildings, and into the shadowy spaces that could be hiding another threat.
“Sir, we have visitors.”
“Roger,” I replied, watching the small crowd of locals assembling near the entrance to the compound. “What are we hearing from the police?” I asked.
“Sir, it’s all quiet right now, but the cell phones in the area are starting to buzz.”
Only a mile away, the Abbottabad police were within earshot of the activity in the compound. One of my biggest concerns was that the police, good men just doing their job, would show up and get into a firefight with the SEALs. It would not go well for the Pakistani cops.
Inside the compound a two-man element of the assault force had nearly reached the third floor. From behind a curtain separating the stairway from the third floor, a shadowy face emerged, his dark eyes fixed on the men rushing up the stairway. The lead SEAL, his gun tucked firmly into his shoulder, finger on the trigger, fired toward the figure, but the rounds impacted high. Without hesitation, the SEALs stormed up the last few steps, through the curtain, and into the room. Inside, two young girls stood at the entrance. Nearly certain that the girls were wearing suicide vests, the lead SEAL threw himself on the young women to shield his partner from the blast. Entering the room immediately behind, the second SEAL came face-to-face with a tall, thin man, who was using an older woman to shield his body.
The second SEAL, Senior Chief Petty Officer Rob O’Neill, leveled his weapon and fired three rounds at the man, two to the head and one more for good measure. The tall man crumpled to the floor, dead before he hit the ground.
Inside the JOC, I was getting updates from Van Hooser and Thompson. The SEALs were still clearing the three-story house and the helos were holding their
position outside Abbottabad.
I looked up at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since the assault began.
“Sir, the squadron commander is on the radio,” Van Hooser alerted me.
The voice was unmistakable. Deep, calm, in control. “This is Romeo Six Six.” He paused and you could hear a small shudder in his voice. “For God and Country, Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo!”
The hunt for the most wanted man in the world was over. We had gotten bin Laden.
The JOC erupted in cheers, immediately followed by Van Hooser’s booming voice. “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled. “We still have to get these guys home.”
The JOC immediately quieted down.
Van Hooser was right. We still had a long way to go. I had no sense of relief, no internal exhilaration, no feeling of victory. The mission was not over. We were 162 miles from home and the Pakistanis were now beginning to wake up and muster a military response.
I relayed the message to Panetta, “Sir, we have Geronimo.” But it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know if Geronimo meant bin Laden had been found and captured, or killed in the assault.
Yelling out of my closet to the JOC floor, I asked Van Hooser to confirm if it was Geronimo EKIA. Seconds later came the response from Van Hooser. “Yes sir, Geronimo EKIA.”
Once again, I passed the information back to Panetta. On the screen in my closet, I could see Panetta and Michael Morell smiling broadly.
I looked up at the clock. The SEALs had been on the ground in Abbottabad for almost twenty minutes now. The plan called for thirty minutes on the ground—no more.
In the courtyard, I could see the SEALs and the helo pilots rigging the downed Black Hawk for destruction. A downed helo was always a possibility on every mission. Consequently, each crew carried sufficient demolition to destroy the classified electronics, and in this case, we brought enough explosives to destroy the entire helicopter. Still, we would have to wait until right before extraction to detonate the charges.
“Sir, the SEALs are requesting some additional time on the ground,” Van Hooser said.
“What’s the holdup?” I asked.
“Sir, they say they found a whole shit-ton of computers and electronic gear on the second floor.”
I looked at the clock. We were now closing in on thirty minutes and my gut told me to stick with the plan, but I also realized that the forensics from a hard drive could be vital to follow on missions.
“Okay, Pete. Tell them to grab as much as they can, but I don’t want them to linger too long. Ask J.T. how this will affect our gas situation.”
Van Hooser acknowledged and a few seconds later came the response. “Sir, J.T. says we are going to have to refuel anyway, so a few more minutes won’t make a difference.”
“Roger. Okay.”
I checked the clock again and looked at the monitors, which showed Pakistani activity. From my closet I could hear one of the intelligence analysts talking to Van Hooser.
“What’s going on, Pete?”
“Sir, the Pakistanis are up on comms. They know something is happening in Abbottabad but they don’t seem to know what.”
I looked at the clock. “How much more time do they need on the ground?”
“Sir, they are still rigging the helo, but the squadron commander says they can be ready to go in five minutes.”
Five minutes was an eternity, but I knew the ground commander understood the situation, and I would leave the decision in his hands.
The Pakistani communications began to light up. The Pakistani leaders were trying to understand what was happening. Was there a helicopter in Abbottabad? Was there a Pakistani exercise ongoing that they were unaware of? Were there Americans involved? How was that possible? Americans in downtown Abbottabad? A helicopter had crashed. In Abbottabad?
The crowd of locals had now grown to several dozen. Our Agency officer was very casually talking with the townsfolk. He informed them that this was a Pakistani military exercise and they needed to stand back. Much to everyone’s surprise, the locals bought the story and were very cooperative. No one seemed alarmed by the heavily armed American soldiers who were standing nearby.
“Sir, the SEALs are ready for extraction.”
“Roger.”
The second Black Hawk, which had successfully offloaded its SEALs during the initial assault, was now inbound to pick up the first ten SEALs and their precious cargo, the body of Osama bin Laden. Onscreen, four SEALs carried the body bag containing the remains of UBL. The remaining six provided security as they moved to the waiting Black Hawk.
The helo lifted off and began its next leg to the Forward Air Refueling Point located about thirty minutes from Abbottabad. Seconds later, the MH-47 Chinook came swooping into view on the large screen just as the downed Black Hawk inside the compound exploded. The plume from the explosion reached a hundred feet into the air, obscuring my view of the inbound Chinook. I listened to the radio calls, and within thirty seconds all the remaining SEALs were on the last helo outbound for Afghanistan.
I called in to Panetta. “Sir, everyone is out of the compound and headed back to Afghanistan. We still have a long way to go, though. I will keep you posted.”
Right about then, I overheard the intelligence officer notify Van Hooser that the Pakistanis were preparing to scramble their F-15s. Van Hooser passed on the intelligence to me. Once again, we had foreseen this possibility, and all the analysts were certain that the state of the Pakistani radars and their ability to find and then direct the F-15s to our position was highly unlikely. Still, I knew they were hunting us now and they could get lucky. President Obama had directed me to fight our way out if necessary; consequently, on the Afghan side of the border I had a “Gorilla Package” of U.S. fighters, radar-jamming aircraft, attack helicopters, the works. Nothing could stop our return now but an unfortunate accident.
Thirty minutes after the second Black Hawk left the compound with bin Laden’s body, it set down in a remote area of Pakistan. Soon thereafter, the MH-47 bearing the FARP set down beside it. Nineteen minutes later, the refueling was complete and both helos were on their way back to Afghanistan.
At 0330 local time, the last helo crossed back into Afghan airspace and minutes later landed at Jalalabad airfield. The boys were safely back home. But the mission was not completely over.
On the other side of the VTC, I could see that Panetta and others were celebrating the successful mission. The screen on my VTC suddenly changed and the President and his team came into view.
“Congratulations, Bill. Great mission!”
“Thank you, Mr. President, glad everyone is back safely. Sorry about the helo. It looks like I owe you about sixty million dollars.”
The President smiled.
“But sir, I still need to be certain that it is bin Laden. I have been on a number of missions before where we called PID,” I said, referring to positive identification, “only to be wrong.”
“Okay, Bill, I understand. How long before you can confirm it’s bin Laden?”
“Sir, the helo just landed with the body. Let me go take a look and I will get back to you within twenty minutes.”
As I was heading out of the JOC, the CIA Chief of Station stopped me at the door. “Bill, do you mind if I go with you to PID bin Laden? I have been chasing this guy for over ten years. I’d like to be there just to see it through to the end.”
“You bet! You can represent every Agency man and woman who had a stake in this mission.”
We loaded up in a small Toyota pickup and drove out to the hangar. There the SEALs were just arriving from the flight line. The joy of the moment was uncontainable. Guys were shaking hands, hugging each other, and yelling excitedly. They had just completed the most successful special operation since World War II.
The pickup truck containing the remains of bin Laden’s body pulled into the hangar with a few SEALs riding in the back. I walked over to the truck.
“Sir, do you need to see the body?” one of t
he SEALs asked.
“I do.”
Grabbing the remains, two SEALs pulled the heavy rubberized bag off the bed of the truck and laid it in front of me. I knelt down and unzipped the bag and exposed the body of bin Laden. My Agency colleague knelt beside me. Bin Laden’s face was contorted from two shots to the head and the beard was a little shorter and lighter. But it certainly appeared to be him.
“What do you think?” I asked the station chief.
“Sure looks like him,” he said.
“It does look like him,” I answered with a bit of hesitation.
“It’s him. It’s absolutely him,” one of the SEALs proclaimed loudly. “Look, here is the photo I took of him right after we killed him.”
I looked at the photo and we compared it with another likeness the Agency officer had. It was an exact match. Nevertheless, I was about to report to the President of the United States and I needed to be as sure as possible.
“Help me get him out of the bag,” I said to no one in particular.
We pulled bin Laden’s body out of the bag, but his legs were folded awkwardly in a fetal-like position. Grabbing his legs, I stretched them out until his body was full length. Knowing that reports had bin Laden at six foot four, I eyeballed the remains, and he certainly appeared tall.
Looking at the small gathering of SEALs that surrounded me, I turned to one young operator. “Son, how tall are you?”
“What?”
“I said, how tall are you?”
“Six foot two,” he responded.
“Good,” I said. “Lie down next to the body.”
He looked at me as if to say, Surely you’re kidding. “You want me to lie down next to the body?”
“Yes… I want you to lie down next to the body.”
“Okay, sir.”
The SEAL positioned himself within inches of the remains, and it was clear that the body lying on the hangar floor was a good two inches longer than the SEAL next to him. My Agency friend smiled. “It’s definitely him.”
I quickly shook a few hands and thanked the guys, but I knew that the President was waiting for my report.
“Sir, I can’t be 100 percent sure until we do the DNA tests, but it certainly looks like him, and all the physical features match.” I could see the President and his staff nodding their acknowledgment. “While his face was contorted from the impact of the rounds, I did have a SEAL, who was over six foot two, lie down beside the body, and the remains were at least six foot four.”
Sea Stories Page 32
